


Big Spoon Bribery

by seraphinite



Category: Shall We Date?: Obey Me!
Genre: Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Gender-Neutral Pronouns, Mild Angst, belphie is mentioned briefly a few times, gender neutral reader, quarantine got me out here touch starved i just wanna SNUGGLE this grump, there are Allusions to spicy times but this is just fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-05
Updated: 2020-06-05
Packaged: 2021-03-04 05:27:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,015
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24558403
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seraphinite/pseuds/seraphinite
Summary: You have three missions.1. Acquire the coveted position of big spoon.2. Help Lucifer and Belphie make amends.3. Don’t die trying.Yeah, right. Goodluck.
Relationships: Lucifer (Shall We Date?: Obey Me!)/Reader
Comments: 8
Kudos: 223





	Big Spoon Bribery

**Author's Note:**

> This ‘technically’ takes place in the same "au" as my series Oh, Worm?, so, there’s a wee little reference to that. No biggie though. If you've read it, you probably have an idea of how this is going to go down, lol. Enjoy!

Lucifer is laying down in your lap, muscular arms wrapped around your waist—cool, clean moonlight spilling across the expanse of his back. His chest rises and falls gently with each soft breath—a far cry from the furious tizzy he’d been in twenty minutes ago. 

Calmed now, though maybe not quite all the way. You shift ever so slightly to avoid getting poked in the tummy by his horns, jostling him in the process, and massive, raven dark wings ruffle agitatedly against the bed sheets. You snort— _he’s such a brat, sometimes_ —and hook a leg snugly around the back of his left thigh. Gingerly, you rub your palm across his skin, fingertips mindful of the spots where flesh turns to feather. He grumbles and his grip on you tightens, but his wings relax against the mattress once more.

Humming softly, you run your fingers through his hair—tugging gently at the dark strands. Silvery white at the ends, catching moonlight like the strings of a spider's web. Graying, possibly, but in reverse. Unless it’s the opposite—had his hair been white, once? It’s an appealing thought, but you suppose it doesn’t matter, really. It’s hard to imagine him looking any differently, breathtakingly gorgeous as he already is.

He’s _warm_ too _._ Crushing your hips a bit, but the trade off is _so_ worth it. It’s not often that you get to wrap him up and squeeze him like the massive, brooding, touch-starved teddy bear that he secretly is. He prefers to be the one wrapping _you_ up, so moments like this are few and far between, and always leave you wanting for more. 

If you ever want to be the big spoon in this relationship, you’re going to have to take a stand. Act _assertively._ And _cunningly._ You need to get your hands on some Princess’s Poison Apples to ~~bribe him~~ warm him up to the idea. Maybe a new fountain pen, and a voodoo doll of Mammon, too. You can assemble a gift basket—call it the ‘ _Let Me Be The Big Spoon For Once, You Boomer’_ Basket. He’ll think it’s dumb (which it is) but there’s _no way_ he’ll be able to resist your bizarre but endearing charm. 

...Probably.

You drag your nails lightly against Lucifer’s scalp, right at the base of his horns. He sighs, a puff of warm air against your thigh that sends shivers down your spine and goosebumps across your skin. He’s all toffee soft and melting into your lap like a milk-drunk kitten, so you figure that now is as good a time as any to ask about what exactly it was that pissed him off earlier. Thanks to a few frantic texts from Mammon, you have an inkling of what went down—an argument of some sort with Belphie.

While mostly civil, their relationship is still a bit... stormy, at times. To put it nicely. Part of the problem is that they’re both so stubborn and hardheaded that the chances of you turning into a werewolf and going apeshit on the neighbors is astronomically higher than either of them apologizing on their own. So, if you find out the details, you might be able to ~~meddle~~ mediate. 

You cup Lucifer’s cheek with one hand and ask, “Do you wanna talk about it?”

He goes rigid.

“You don’t have to if you don’t want to,” you add gently, stroking the cut of his jaw with your thumb. Your touch is soft, soothing—slowly, he unclenches his teeth. “Just want you to know that you can, if it’ll make you feel better.” 

He ponders over your words for a moment, then shakes his head, mindful of how the side of his horn bumps your tummy. He forgets sometimes, how human you are—how soft. Forgiving. _Nosey._

“Not yet. Just—don’t let go.” 

“I won’t.” You squeeze him tight—brush a lock of hair away from his eyes. “I’m here.” 

You have three missions. In order of importance, they are—

  1. Acquire the coveted position of big spoon.
  2. Help Lucifer and Belphie make amends.
  3. Don’t die trying.



Alright, perhaps _maybe_ that last one should be higher up. But you just _really really really_ want to be the big spoon. So badly. Like, _you put together a gift basket to bribe Lucifer_ badly. In your totally humble and neutral opinion it’s a stunning work of art—lacquered black wicker basket three times the size of your head, stuffed to the brim with Princess’s Poison Apples, Coffee of Melancholy beans, some incredibly luxurious stationery, black booty shorts with ‘ _Enemy of The State_ ’ in bold red print across the butt, and a bottle of Demonus, all surrounding the pièce de résistance: a voodoo doll of Mammon.

 _Oh yes._ Tonight is going to go _incredibly_ well.

The plan is simple and straightforward—foolproof. Suffocate Lucifer with presents and love, and then _,_ when he's in a good mood and not expecting it _: beg_. 

You reckon the odds are 51 to 49, in your favor. You’ve risked your life on worse—your short history in the Devildom is a glowing testament to that. It’s good enough. You’ve already cast the die. Now all that's left is to see where it lands.

To increase your chances of success, you’ve pulled out all of the stops for this momentous occasion. No expense was spared in making Lucifer’s room as clichély romantic as possible. The fireplace? Lit. Pillows? Fluffed. Lights? Dimmed. Rose petals? Scattered. _Tastefully_. 

Even the big, (still) nameless skeleton—the guardian perched ominously in the corner of the room—is in on your ~~shenanigans~~ romantic gesture. The pair of black sunshades you had so skillfully taped onto it’s face have been replaced by an even _better_ pair—oversized, bubblegum pink and heart shaped. Courtesy of your wardrobe, of course.

Now, you wait.

You throw one last fistful of crimson rose petals at the hardwood, then dive face-first into bed. In the distance, thunder rumbles. Though that might have been Beelzebub’s stomach. No way to know for sure.

This is fine. Totally fine. You’re an expert at being patient. A master, even. If RAD gave out degrees for being patient—well, you wouldn’t have one, because you’d have to wait for it. But it would be fine because you’re just _so_ good at that. Waiting. 

Patience. _Paaaaaatience. Pay-shens._ It’s fine. Yep. Nothing awful about this at all. You’re just going to wait. 

And wait.

And keep waiting because apparently he’s working late again and totally disrupting your amorous plans, god dammit.

You toss your D.D.D aside and turn your attention out the windows, to the forest. The night sky is darker than usual—the moon swallowed whole by a maw of angry storm clouds, the darkest you’ve ever seen. The center of it crackles with purple lightning, splintering down to lash teasingly at the treetops. 

You shift—adjust your mess of pillows and blankets, so that your head is at the foot of the bed. It’s not like you have anything better to do (not until Lucifer gets here) so you might as well watch the storm. 

“Hm? What’s all this?” 

You wake with a start—desperately try to pretend that you weren’t just drooling into the pillows. Lucifer is stood over your gift, examining it with shining eyes and upturned lips.

“Surprise!” 

He’s already in pajamas. He totally saw you knocked out. 

Lucifer tilts his head—lifts the voodoo doll and turns it over in his hands. Pokes at it’s plush belly with an index finger. Jabs a finger into its cheek, right next to the black-stitch smile. Holds it upside down by one foot. Your highly advanced Lucifer-reading skills tell you that he’s pleased. Poor Mammon. You should probably send him an apology gift basket.

Lucifer shakes mini-Mammon like a maraca. “What’s the occasion?” 

“No occasion! I just felt like spoiling you.” 

“You don’t say?” He drops the mini-Mammon back into the basket and makes his way to the bed—the mattress dips as he moves to hover over you, hands coming up to cage your head, one knee planted firmly between your thighs. Mirth dances between the red and black of his irises. “I should return the favor.”

He dips down to kiss you and your lightning fast reflexes kick in—your hand snaps up to cover his mouth. You feel his lips turn down into a scowl and you grin, shifting some beneath him. 

“Chin up, buttercup. Don’t look so grumpy, I have something else in mind.” You waggle your eyebrows, and now he just looks confused—as much as he can with you pawing at his mouth—but perhaps a bit more hopeful. Sweetly, you whisper, “ _T_ _here’s something I want_.”

He glances at the basket, eyes narrowing suspiciously, and knocks your hand away. He can’t help but wonder— _why_ are you being so cryptic? What in the realms are you plotting _now?_

A little apprehensively, he says, “Is that right? What do you—” 

“I’m so glad you asked! Lemme be the big spoon.”

“... _That’s it?_ ” 

You stare him down with the biggest, saddest, most heart-wrenching puppy eyes that you can muster. “Pretty please with a poison apple on top?” 

He stares at you, disbelieving. Quirks a single neat brow and— _oh._ There it is. That all too familiar look in your eyes. Searing determination that burns brighter than the flames of Hell. Fierce and vivid. You’re entirely serious.

“ _T_ _hat’s_ what you want?” 

“Yes.” 

“...You went through the trouble of making all that—” he gestures loosely at the basket. “Just because you want to be the _‘big spoon_ ’?” 

You pat his cheek with a dopey grin. “No trouble at all when it’s for you.” 

Lucifer ducks his head. Pink stains his cheeks. “You’re a menace.” 

“Only for you, my love~”

You’re on cloud nine. Over the moon and stars. Walking on air. 

At long last, _you are the Big Spoon_.

You understand now, why he’s so insistent on being the one to hold you. This is even better than the occasions when he’ll angrily throw himself into your lap and demand to be pet, which is saying something because those are some _damn_ good times. 

But this? This takes the cake.

You’ve got one arm snaked around his chest, the other up and playing with his hair. You could spend an eternity like this—content to listen to the rain pelting against the windows, your face buried in the crook of his neck. 

There’s a small scar, just hidden by his hairline. You wonder if he even knows about it. If he remembers how it got there. It’s more recent—not as faded as the jagged twin scars carved into the center of his back, hugging his spine.

There are some things— _very few things_ —that you don’t bring up. Lucifer’s missing set of wings is one of them. You have your theories, of course—you’ve seen the frayed raven feathers that Satan brandishes around his neck, not dissimilar to a trophy. You know of how he was created—of the bond that chains him to Lucifer. You know.

But, there are some things better left unsaid.

A proverb that you are absolutely about to contradict.

You have a mission, after all. 

Slowly, stealthily, you lift a leg, hooking it around his hip so that he can’t escape.

“ _What are you doing?_ ” 

Okay, so maybe not as stealthy as you thought. He knows something is up, so you tighten your hold on him, just in case he flips when you start to pick at his feelings like a scab.

His apprehension, combined with how comfortable you are _almost_ makes you want to throw in the towel. You could. Probably even should. This has gone above and beyond your expectations—your stomach twists at the thought of souring such a perfectly sweet moment. 

Alas, your family is in turmoil, and you are but a humble knight in shining pajamas. Literally—silk is just so _shiny._

Unless you want to end up with a face blasted full of feathers, you need to approach this carefully. You’re in the danger zone now—the risk is high, but so is the reward.

“Hey, Lu?” 

“Hm?”

_Carefully, now._

“Why did you and Belphie fight?” 

You’re not sure how he manages it, what with your intense octopus hold on him, but with infuriating ease, he manages to twist around in your grasp so that he’s facing you. His upper lip curls into the slightest snarl, revealing sharp incisors. 

“I’m not discussing this with you.” 

“ _Why not_?” 

“Because I said so.”

“Because you… _said_ so.” your tone is flat—offended. Heat ignites between the rungs of your ribcage, swirling around your lungs, sudden and consuming. It’s not the good kind.

He glares down his nose. You can see yourself in the black of his eyes—see the pinched furrow of your brow, the acidic bite of your own gaze. “Yes. Because it’s none of your business.”

“ _None of my business_ ? You’re _both_ my family and therefore both _my_ business. And even if you won’t tell me, I still know that _you_ shifted first. Usually the one who throws the first punch is the one that _also_ needs to apologize first, y’know?”

“I see.” Lucifer’s eyes narrow—harden. He’s gone tense in your hold. You briefly consider squeezing him like a stress ball. “You’re taking his side.”

“ _T_ _aking his_ —I don’t even know what the argument was about!”

Lucifer says nothing. You stare. Silence. 

_Seriously_? Is _that_ what he thinks you’re doing?

“Lucifer.”

He turns his head away.

“ _Lucifer._ ” 

He doesn’t look at you. Won’t look.

When Lucifer gets like this, you can’t afford to be tentative and gentle. He needs force—needs to be handled. Just a bit.

So, you take matters into your own hands. Literally.

You smush his cheeks between your palms and hold him in place, waiting for him to turn that bitter gaze upon your own. He looks like an angry goldfish—the handsomest goldfish that you’ve ever had the pleasure of spooning. Also, the only one.

“I’m on _your_ side, Lucifer.” With a feather light touch, you brush your thumb across his cheekbone. “That’s why I think you should make the effort to just _talk_ to him. You’re happier when your whole family is getting along.”

Your observation is right. It’s a truth that’s still too tender, too raw, but, it’s the truth. You know it. He knows it. 

So, naturally, he escapes your grip and tries to flee.

“ _NO!_ ” You swing a leg over his hips and shove him back into the mattress. He goes down hard, and before he can escape, you perch your happy little ass right on his chest, locking his arms against his sides with your thighs and praying to Diavolo that he won’t hurl you across the room at mach 5. 

He doesn’t splatter you against the wall, but he does smile for a split second. Somehow that’s scarier.

Your heart chisels away at your ribcage now, and somewhere, in the recesses of your mind, you wonder if he can hear it.

“Look.” you ease the death-grip of your legs—nervously sweep a piece of lint off his shirt. “When we started dating, we made a deal. Remember? ‘ _No holding back_ ’. Sealed with a pinky promise and everything. You and I are a _team_ . A _pair_ . Two peas in a pod. The heart and the brain! _Tui and La_. Co-captains! Pilot and co-pilo—”

Another twitch of the lips. “I get it.”

You nod sagely. “You get it. You don’t have to tell me the details of what happened if you don’t want to. I mean, it’d be _nice_ because you _know_ how incredibly nosey I am—stop nodding—but I’m willing to compromise if you at least tell me how you’re _feeling_. I want to know where your head is at. I know you’ve done this by yourself for thousands of years, but it’s not just you anymore, okay? I’m here, now. You’re stuck with me and I’m going to get that through your thick ass demon skull even if I have to—”

“Okay, okay, _okay_.” With a heaving sigh, Lucifer sits up, knocking you into his lap like a turtle on its shell. Before you can squirm away, he pulls you up—maneuvers you both so that his back is against the headboard, you straddling his lap. Eye to eye. “I take it you wrote all that down before I got here.” 

You relax into him—loop your arms around his neck. His hands settle on your waist. “Yep. Two drafts. The other version had a lot more cussing. Wanna read it?” 

He chuckles—presses a kiss to your temple and smiles there. “Of course.”

You two stay that way for a bit—content to sit in the silence and listen to the soft pattering of rain on the windows. You’re 99.99% sure he still isn’t going to talk about this, but you think that you got through to him. Somewhat. 

Baby steps.

“Promise you’ll at least _try_ to talk to him?” 

Lucifer sighs, a bit dramatically. “I suppose so.” 

You lean back to give him a look that says _Really?_

“ _I mean it._ I will.” 

You hold up your pinky finger and he stares at it, looking absolutely scandalized by your youthful ways. You tap it against his chest once, twice. Nothing. You tug the hair at the nape of his neck, and waggle your pinky. “C’mon, handsome. Make a pact with me.” 

He rolls his eyes, but wraps his own firmly around yours, the barest hint of a smile on his lips. When you try to drop your hand, he threads his fingers through yours, and tucks you back into his chest.

“So…” your voice is small, muffled against his neck. “Can I still be the big spoon tonight?”

His laugh is the second sweetest thing you’ve ever heard—the first being the totally betrayed gasp that bursts past his lips when you blow a big fat raspberry into his neck.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Didya catch the atla reference? :D I just couldn’t help myself~ I’ve got two braincells rn—one of them is for obey me and the other is for atla. Dual wielding hyperfixations at it's finest.


End file.
